


trust my feet over you

by sans_carte



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, Doctor Clarke, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Finn Collins Being an Asshole, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Anya/Raven Reyes, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, gratuitous cursing, no beta we die like ben, resilience y'all, too many run-on sentences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_carte/pseuds/sans_carte
Summary: It takes Finn cheating on her (and getting caught) for Clarke to finally call it quits. She’s almost embarrassed about that. All the shit she comes to realize he’s done over the last four years, but it’s her hurt pride—the fact that he cheated on her with some twenty-one-year-old he met at a bar, for three goddamn months—that makes her tell him it’s over and demand the keys to the apartment back.Finn doesn’t go quietly.Completed! This isn’t a light one, y’all, but there's eventual Clarke/Lexa of course.  See tags and notes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for descriptions of emotional and verbal abuse (there’s no physical abuse or sexual assault, however), and eventual reference to suicide. Please see end notes for resources on emotional abuse and recovery. Un-beta’d; no update schedule but I’ll post the rest when it’s ready.

 

It takes Finn cheating on her (and getting caught) for Clarke to finally call it quits. She’s almost embarrassed about that. All the shit she comes to realize he’s done over the last four years, but it’s her hurt pride—the fact that he cheated on her with some twenty-one-year-old he met at a bar, for three goddamn months—that makes her tell him it’s over and demand the keys to the apartment back.

Finn doesn’t go quietly. First he rages, slamming doors so hard she hears the glassware rattling in the cabinet. He blames her for “making” him cheat, apparently by being too busy with medical school and then her residency, not dressing sexy enough for him, and not agreeing to an open relationship or a threesome.  He calls her a _stupid bitch_ and worse.  

With a burgeoning, ice-cold clarity she recalls the backhanded compliments, the brutal lectures he claimed were helpful critiques, the teasing that cut too deep.  She remembers crying sometimes and him sighing, _you’re just so sensitive_ , remembers him yelling during fights but then snapping _keep your fucking voice down_ when she started to get angry in response.

Clarke thinks she almost prefers the outright simplicity of being called a bitch.

When she doesn’t back down from his rage this time, Finn starts to cry and mope around.  He says she’s the only one who really understands him. He says it feels like she’s stabbing him in the heart.  He says he’s sorry this happened but he couldn’t help himself, they’ve both hurt each other but _we can move past this, babe_ , he’d had this whole future planned out for them, if only...

That’s when she almost wavers.  She’s not a monster, and maybe she owes him one more chance, right? He was good to her ( _sometimes_ , an honest voice adds in her mind); she loved him, and she’d pictured their future too. But in that imaginary future, he wouldn’t have cheated on her, tried to hide it, and then expected her to forgive him. He would be good to her more than just sometimes.

So Clarke doesn’t rush to comfort him and accept his half-apology like she always used to.  Pretty soon he finds something else to rage about again, and she’s glad she didn’t cave.

Eventually Clarke starts throwing his stuff into boxes until Finn takes it over himself, claiming she’s doing it wrong anyway.  She avoids the apartment as much as possible for the three weeks until his new lease starts, camping out in coffee shops to study for her step exam and staying over at Raven’s a couple times when she just can’t take being around him anymore.

The day Finn moves out, Octavia and her boyfriend Lincoln come over as backup.  Clarke wants to make sure Finn doesn’t take anything of hers; he’s been swearing up and down it should all be his anyway, since she’s keeping the apartment (despite the fact that she has paid all of the rent and bills for half of the last year, before he landed a new job).   

She considers getting the locks changed. But Finn’s too lazy to be truly violent or destructive, she thinks, despite his nasty words and slammed doors. Besides, she doesn’t want to explain it to the landlord.

(Clarke can’t let herself think, just yet, about the fact that she even considered changing the locks, and what that says about their relationship.  About him.)

And then Finn is gone.

Octavia pulls her into a hug after the door shuts for the last time behind him.  “It’ll be okay. You’re better off without him. You _got_ this,” she murmurs to Clarke, who feels her shoulders drop slowly, untensing.

“Thanks, O.”

Her best friend since freshman English squeezes her tighter.  “I already unfriended and blocked him on social media, otherwise I’d offer to cyber-bully his ass for you.”

Clarke just laughs into her shoulder, and if a few tears escape too, Octavia doesn’t mention it.

***

The apartment is so fucking *quiet* without him. Without Finn’s tirades about his old job, his complaints about Clarke, her mom, and her friends, his fits of temper and even his laughter when he was in a good mood...it seems silent as outer space. Her ears strain sometimes for the sound of his keys jingling at the door, her stomach churning, before she remembers.

Instead, she fills the apartment with her own noise. She plays the music he hated, sings along loud and offkey, binge-watches old Buffy and Star Trek episodes in her sweatpants, and calls Raven and Octavia on speaker.

There are so many things Clarke had lost to him, piece by piece so she hadn’t really noticed, like the proverbial frog in the slowly boiling water. Things she’d given up or had started doing because it wasn’t worth another fight.  Loading the dishwasher a certain way so he wouldn’t berate her for her supposed incompetence, ordering food he preferred because he was picky and when he was hungry he got mean. Stuff she’s all but forgotten, pushed down in her memory because he didn’t really mean what he said, he was just stressed, and really she should’ve known better, _been_ better.  

She starts seeing a therapist after the second panic attack.  It hits when she’s parked outside the grocery store only to realize she forgot the shopping list, shit, Finn would be so _pissed_ at her.  And all of a sudden she’s dizzy, sucking in huge breaths, and her hands are numb.  

In therapy Clarke talks about that, and about waking up from bad dreams with her heart pounding.  Like the one where Finn shows up at the hospital and tells everyone how much of a fuckup she is, how she doesn’t have any drive or passion...all words he’d spoken to her in waking.  

The worst part is that in these dreams she can’t move, can’t get away from him.

The therapist listens, of course. Listens and tells Clarke she isn’t crazy, or too sensitive.  Trauma doesn’t have to be physical or life-threatening to have an impact, Becca says, and it can take time to acknowledge and to heal. She suggests meditation and yoga and grounding techniques, and sometimes Clarke manages to do this stuff. Sometimes it even helps.

***

Raven and Octavia are happy to see more of Clarke; she’d been hanging out with them less and less often, before. The first night she has them over for pizza and a movie, they’re halfway through Ocean’s 8 and the second round of beers before Clarke’s jaw fully unclenches and she can laugh loud as she wants to.

“So do you think you’ll get a roommate?” Octavia asks after a while, when the movie credits are rolling.

“At some point, yeah. I mean, I can just barely afford it on my own.  And it’s not like I’m really using the second bedroom anyway.”

“Except as your art storage,” Raven points out.  Since Finn left, Clarke has also started painting and drawing a little again.  It’s crap--she’s rusty as hell--but she enjoys it, and is filling the smaller bedroom that was always supposed to be a guest room/studio with canvases and sketches. (Finn didn’t get along with her mom or stepdad Marcus well enough for them to stay there when they were in town, and the rare times her hospital schedule yielded enough time for her to work on art, he’d scoff that she was being self-indulgent or imply she wasn’t paying enough attention to him.)

“Yeah, but now I have more space in my bedroom to store that stuff. Plus, sometimes it’s a little too quiet. I’m gonna, like, start talking to the walls or something.”

Octavia groans. “Can we trade? I’ll take the quiet, you can take Miss Call-of-Duty-On-Stereo here,” she says, pointing at Raven with a piece of pizza crust.

Raven sticks her tongue out at her roommate.  “You love me too much, you’d miss me.”

Clarke smiles at their antics but then hesitates, swirls her beer.  “Is it bad that I miss _him_ , sometimes?” she says, in a small voice. “I mean he turned into an asshole, but he used to make me laugh, he made me that awesome cake for my birthday, we have all these memories and photos and shit…” She blinks hard.  She is _not_ crying.

“Oh, sweetie.  It’s natural to miss him,” Raven says, shifting to set her own beer down on the coffee table and face Clarke directly.  “You were together for more than four years. And he could be a charming, romantic bastard when he wanted to.”

Raven and Finn had dated years ago in high school.  He’d been somewhat less of an asshole then, but then again they’d broken up after only a few months, because Raven was leaving for college and didn’t want to be tied down.  She had actually introduced him to Clarke, who’d been her college roommate, after he moved to Polis.

“You deserve better, Clarke,” she adds, sincerely.

Octavia raises her beer to toast her words.  “Co-signed. You deserve way better. You’re fuckin’ hot, babe.”

That gets a chuckle out of Clarke.  “Thought you didn’t swing that way, O.”

“Just ‘cause I’m not on Team Rainbow like you two doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate female hotness,” her friend replies easily, swigging her beer.

“Speaking of which, can we rewatch that movie? Because,” Raven pretends to fan herself, “I need more Cate Blanchett in a pantsuit, unf…”

Clarke laughs. She doesn’t exactly disagree, and appreciating female hotness, as Octavia put it, is another thing she’s clawed back from Finn. He’d claimed to totally respect her bisexuality but mostly pretended it didn’t exist, except when he was drunk and horny and wanted to persuade her to have a threesome.

She’s tired of thinking about Finn. She’s tired of rediscovering parts of herself she had lost touch with. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and focuses on this moment with her friends. And on Cate Blanchett’s undeniable hotness.

***

After another month Clarke puts an ad on a few local housing listings, and from the responses she weeds out the college party-types, the few that just seem too _weird_ even in email form to consider, and the one she’s pretty sure is a Russian bot.

She meets with the top three candidates in person, showing them the apartment in return. Based on the emails, candidate number 3–“Anya Woods”—seems intelligent, straightforward, and professional. Anya is an architect a few years older than Clarke herself, who wants to move closer to her workplace. She signs her succinct emails with “Best, A” and offers to provide a landlord reference.

And in person she’s almost intimidatingly serious, has high cheekbones and fucking incredible makeup skills. Anya doesn’t shake her hand and barely cracks a smile during the whole apartment tour, but it’s clear that that’s just who she is.  Clarke appreciates the lack of pretense.

“I keep weird hours sometimes when a project is due,” Anya warns, “but I don’t make a ton of noise if I come back late, I do all my dishes, and I can basically sleep through the apocalypse.”

“Oh good,” Clarke says. “I’m doing my residency so sometimes I have weird hours, too.”

“I probably won’t have a lot of people over either. Maybe a couple colleagues from my firm, or my cousin Lexa. I’m not dating anyone, but I am gay. Assuming that won’t be a problem?” Anya’s eyes flick over towards the bisexual flag magnet on the fridge, which Clarke had picked up at Pride some years back and rediscovered in the bottom of a drawer Finn had emptied.

“Not at all, clearly,” Clarke says. “And I just broke up with someone myself. But you’ll probably meet my friends Raven and Octavia, I have them over sometimes.”

“I don’t do dogs. Cats are acceptable,” Anya states flatly.  “And I don’t smoke.”

Clarke blinks. “The landlord, uh, doesn’t allow pets.  Or smoking.”

“Okay. Do you have any other questions for me?”

Clarke gives her the sublease that day, and within two weeks Anya has moved in. True enough, she is quiet, clean, and considerate. She doesn’t seem to like Raven and Octavia much at first, but she’s at least civil, disappearing wordlessly into her room when they come over to take up the couch and eat all of Clarke’s food.

“Dude, your new roommate is kinda hot,” Raven says one night as she descends on the nachos Clarke just pulled out of the oven. “Ow, fuck!”

Clarke isn’t sure if this last, slightly muffled exclamation is because she elbowed Raven or because of the burning hot cheese the engineer just crammed in her mouth. “Rae! She can probably hear you.”

“So?” Raven selects another loaded chip and blows on it briefly. “It’s true. Maybe you should tap that.”

“I’m not gonna sleep with my roommate!” Clarke whispers. “I’m not ready to sleep with anyone right now, and anyway, that’s a bad idea!”

Raven shrugs. “Could be missing out. You know the quiet ones are always kinky.”

“Raven!!”

“Guess she’s not your type though, is she?” her incorrigible friend says. “When it comes to women, anyway.”

“Oh yeah? I have a type?”

Raven wiggles a hand vaguely in the air.  “Y’know, long dark hair, soft butch, seems broody but is really a cuddly puppy underneath, wants you to top sometimes.”

“That’s not--I don’t--” Clarke stammers, blushing a little.

“Remember rugby captain Niylah in college? And that marine biology major, what was her name, Luna?” Raven speaks around a mouthful of nachos.  “Though Niylah was blonde, come to think of it…”

“She dyed it,” mumbles Clarke.  “Her real color was brown.”

Raven laughs.

“Rae’s right. You totally have a type,” Octavia pipes up from the living room.  “Now where are those nachos?”

***

Some weeks she does better, some weeks worse. Having Anya around does help, even if their busy schedules rarely align, because it gives Clarke someone to talk to and forces her out of her own head.  This week she manages to do both laundry _and_ meal prep and gets out of the house beyond just work shifts. She even goes to bed at a more reasonable time, instead of watching whatever show will keep her brain occupied right up until she falls asleep gritty-eyed on the couch.  Then one morning Finn texts her while she’s at work.

_This time of year reminds me of you.  Of us. Our 1st date_

_I miss u_

Clarke stares at her phone during a brief lull on her shift, re-reads the words trying to dissect the tone and intentions behind them, but doesn’t send a reply.

A patient needs her attention, and it’s another two hours before she has time to check her phone again.  She has three new messages.

_Guess you don’t miss me at all, huh.  You’ve really moved on_

_That was fucking fast_

_You’re just gonna turn your back on everything I did for you. Typical_

Clarke can hear his contemptuous snarl even through the letters on the screen, as if he’s in the room with her, and a chill cascades down her spine.  She gulps a breath, then another, and throws her phone in her locker.

She’s fine, she’s really fine, until her fellow resident Maya drops a sterile instrument she’s about to use. Startled by the clatter, Clarke yells “What the FUCK!” at her so loudly everyone in the operating room stares.

Dr. Jaha’s expression is hidden by his facemask, but his dark eyes are shrewd.  “How many hours this week, Clarke?”

“I’m fine.  Sorry,” she adds in a mumble to Maya.

“How many hours?”

Clarke huffs, meets the doctor’s gaze.  “Fifty-five.” It isn’t that much, given it’s almost the end of the week; she’s worked longer weeks and he knows it.  But he’s a smart guy, Thelonious Jaha, knows when something’s up in his OR.

“Go home.  You’re done for today,” he says calmly.

In the locker room Clarke swears under her breath, kicks the lockers with the side of her foot, then strips out of her scrubs.  She makes it home in record time, since it’s just before the evening rush hour. She has a vague plan of ordering something greasy and plonking herself on the couch to watch TV and NOT look at her phone.  But when she gets in the apartment she’s surprised to find Anya there, and she has company.

Clarke’s simmering anger must show on her face or in her step, because Anya raises an eyebrow at her from where she sits on the couch.

“Whoa. You all right?”

Clarke grunts, toeing off her sneakers.  “Been better.”

“Okay…” Anya clearly doesn’t believe her.  “This is my cousin Lexa, by the way. Lexa, this is Clarke.”

Lexa occupies the sleek Scandinavian-designed armchair that’s the only living room furniture Anya had brought when she moved in.  She sits like it’s a throne, her back ramrod straight, and she’s _gorgeous_ , all jawline and big eyes, dark brown hair partly pulled back in braids.  For some reason it irritates Clarke even more.

“Hi,” she bites out.  

Lexa doesn’t seem perturbed by her rudeness.  “So you’re the roommate.”

“Yep.” Clarke pops the ‘p’ just to be annoying.  Restless, she goes to pour herself some juice in the adjoining kitchen.

Anya’s still watching her.  “Something happen at work? You’re never home this early.”

“I got...angry at a co-worker.  They told me to go home.” She shrugs, taking a sip of juice, then has a sudden urge to explain a little more.  “My asshole of an ex texted me some stupid shit, and it kinda messed with me.”

“Ah.” Anya nods. “You should come with us, then.”

Clarke’s surprised by Anya’s marginally warmer tone as much as the offer.  “Why, where are you going?”

“This one--” Anya lifts her sharp chin in Lexa’s direction, “--wants me to use my precious comp time to check out that place where they let you drink beer and throw axes into the wall.  Because she’s basically a Viking warrior reincarnate.”

Lexa rolls her eyes. They’re light green, bright enough for Clarke to see even from across the room.  “Don’t pretend you haven’t been excited to go since before they opened, Anya.”

“Okay, clearly you two need a medical professional to chaperone you around these axes,” Clarke says.  Her tension dissipates a little at their familiar banter, and maybe more of that is what she needs, instead of lonely takeout and TV.

So she goes with them to the place where they let you drink beer and throw axes into the wall, as long as you sign a waiver first.  Turns out Clarke’s not as terrible at throwing axes as she would’ve thought, though she’s not as good as Anya and nowhere even close to Lexa.  

Lexa, who slings an axe one-handed right into the bull’s-eye on her second attempt and impresses the burly, bearded bartender-slash-axe instructor Gustus so much that he buys her next round.  Lexa, who it turns out has geometric tattoos covering slender yet toned biceps and another piece peeking above the ringer neck of her T-shirt. Quiet, self-confident Lexa, who teases Anya like they’re sisters and glares sternly when Clarke steals fries off her plate but then pushes the plate closer to her...and fuck, maybe she *does* have a type.

Clarke’s irritation vanished, she’s enjoying herself so much she almost doesn’t notice her phone buzzing.  When she finally does, there are five unread texts and a voicemail message, all from Finn. She takes a hard breath in through her nose and lets it out, turns her phone face-down on the table without unlocking it.

“Everything okay?” Lexa asks her, softly as she can over the thunk of axes into wood, as Anya perfects her two-handed throw.

Clarke nods automatically, then catches herself and shakes her head.  “It’s my ex. Mostly I want him to leave me alone, but a part of me doesn’t.  He could be really great sometimes, he’d get so excited about things but then other times...” Words tangle in her throat.  She takes a sip of water--she’d volunteered to be their designated driver--but it doesn’t help her speak.

Lexa just waits, silent.  Watching her.

“I just--how does he still _get_ to me like this?” Clarke finally says in frustration.  “I broke up with him. He moved out.”

“Sounds like getting to you is something he’s good at.”

It somehow mirrors what Raven said about Finn-- _“he could be a charming, romantic bastard when he wanted to”_ \--and reminds her that he always brought up the things she was insecure about when they were fighting.  He needled into the already-strained relationship with her mom. He knew how to poke and poke and get the response he wanted out of her, pushing past any boundaries she tried to set.

“I just want to be over this already,” Clarke says.  “I don’t wanna be so fucking... _on edge_ all the time.”

“It takes as long as it takes,” Lexa tells her, and the distant look in her eye makes it seem like she’s been there before, or somewhere close.  “But you’ll get there.”

“C’mon, you two.  We still have fifteen minutes left to be Vikings,” Anya says, coming up and all but dragging them both away from the table.  She’s clearly enjoying herself, her loose hair and eyeliner-rimmed eyes a little wild. It reminds Clarke of Raven when the engineer (and amateur mechanic) has a new car to work on.

“I think you’d like Raven, if you got to know her,” she tells Anya, picking up the axe and squaring her shoulders.

“That the one who thinks I’m hot?” Anya deadpans right before Clarke releases the axe.  It thunks handle-first against the wall and falls to the floor. Anya laughs.

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t have much of a filter,” Clarke says. She wonders how much else of that conversation her roommate might’ve heard.

They toss a few more axes, Clarke’s throws varying in their accuracy.  “You want some tips?” Lexa offers easily at one point, taking a sip from her beer bottle.

“Sure, Viking Commander,” Clarke jokes.  

She isn’t expecting Lexa to step up right next to her, barely a foot away, and shivers unexpectedly.  “You should turn your body a little more,” the woman says, demonstrating with her own lean frame. “That way you can make your hand with the axe swing like a pendulum, forward and back.  Can I touch your arm?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Lexa maneuvers her right arm with a gentle pressure, demonstrating the even swing she’d described.  “ It’s also easier to keep your arm perpendicular to the floor like this, so the axe flies straight.”  

 _There is nothing straight about this,_ Clarke thinks loudly.  Her skin is warm where Lexa’s touching her, even through her shirt sleeve.

Lexa seems to have gotten a little dazed herself, lingering next to her. Clarke could swear the woman glances down at her lips for a beat before taking a couple of steps back.  Polite shutters go back over Lexa’s expression as she nods towards the target on the wall. “Try it now.”

And damned if Clarke’s axe doesn’t fly into the central circle just outside the bull’s-eye, the closest she’s gotten all night.  

Her jaw drops. “You sure you’ve never thrown an axe before today?”

Anya hears this as she readies for her own throw, and laughs.  “Well, Lexa does literally make a living off teaching people how to fight.”

Clarke stares at the brunette, who shrugs.  “I run a mixed martial arts studio downtown.  Brazilian jiu jitsu, judo, some krav maga.” Her eyes twinkle a little.  “I _have_ thrown a knife before, but no axes.”

“You should check out one of her classes, Clarke,” Anya suggests, sinking her axe deep in the wall.  “Punching people is pretty good for releasing stress.”

“Maybe I will,” Clarke says. She and Lexa are still looking at each other, the hint of a smile around the corners of Lexa’s full lips. There’s a flicker of lightness in Clarke’s chest, something closer to hope than she’s felt in a while.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for descriptions of emotional and verbal abuse (there’s no physical abuse or sexual assault, however) and a reference to suicide in this chapter. Please see end notes for resources on emotional abuse and recovery. Un-beta’d; no update schedule but I’ll post the rest when it’s ready. Thought this would be the last chapter but I’m splitting it into two parts.

 

The next morning Clarke blocks Finn on her phone and social media, and deletes his messages without reading them. Then she asks Anya for the name of her cousin’s studio.

“Here, I’ll text it to you. And Lexa’s number, in case you want private lessons instead.  Or something.”

Clarke thinks Anya is smirking behind her coffee mug at the last part, but she chooses to ignore it.

***

The Intro to Self-Defense class is relatively small--three guys and four women, including Clarke--and she’s grateful for that.  She doesn’t want much of an audience to see her ass getting kicked. But something quickly distracts Clarke from feeling too self-conscious, and that something is Lexa.  Lexa is in a black tank top and shorts, showing off not only her tattooed biceps but also her long, lean legs, as she moves around the studio welcoming students and setting up for the class. Her dark hair is swept back in a ponytail, though with a few of those braids still in it.

She smiles when she sees Clarke.  “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.”

Lexa arches an eyebrow.  “You might not say that in an hour, I’m warning you now.”

She isn’t wrong--it’s a workout for sure, and Clarke is going to be sore as hell for a couple days.  This first class involves more blocking and falling than ass-kicking, it turns out, since Lexa tells them it’s just as important to learn how to take or avoid a hit as it is to hit someone else.  Lexa is a great teacher, if serious. She knows how to explain techniques, when to push people harder and when they’ve done enough, how to encourage the newcomers without making them feel self-conscious.  

Clarke also notices that when Lexa goes around correcting the stance of students during drills, she asks each person if she can reposition their leg or arm before she touches them.  It seems intentional but natural, not awkward.

When Lexa comes up to her as the blonde practices a high block with another student, Clarke is immediately distracted by the woman’s proximity and falters a little on the next block.

“Good speed there, but you want to keep your arm a little firmer,” Lexa says. “That way you catch their full momentum on your arm and push it into a turn, getting you out of their range. Can I show you?” she asks, reaching out without making contact.

“Sure.”

Lexa grasps her right elbow gently and pushes it a bit higher, straightens her forearm, but she could’ve been teaching Clarke how to bake the perfect key lime pie, for all that she can absorb the instruction. Tingling warmth spreads under her skin at the touch, echoing what she’d felt at the axe bar.

Clarke struggles to pretend that she’s following along, nods into Lexa’s intense green eyes, and the tiny smile she gets in return only makes her more flustered.  Fortunately, Lexa moves on to the next pair of students, and Clarke manages to salvage her focus.

By the end of her first lesson, Clarke’s exhausted legs feel like spaghetti and her fingers itch to sketch Lexa in motion.  A different part of her wants to strip Lexa’s sweaty tank top off and lick down her abs and... _hoo boy_ . _Get a grip, Griffin_.

“So what did you think?” Lexa comes over to ask, as Clarke stretches her quads afterwards. “Good stress relief?”

“I liked it.  Kicked my ass, like you said, but I guess that’s kinda the point.”

“I’m glad you liked it, Clarke. I hope you come back for more.” Okay, now that is _definitely_ flirting. Lexa is flirting.  With her. _What do I do? I need to say something, shit, be smooth…_

“Maybe I will,” she echoes her words from the bar. Weak. It’s so weak, she seriously needs to work on her game.  But at least she got the words out without stammering or blushing, and anyway Lexa’s bright eyes are smiling at her again.

***

Clarke has never really liked exercising.  She doesn’t run marathons, do CrossFit, or whatever the latest fad in sweaty self-punishment is.  But despite this (and despite her intense schedule), she signs up for four more intro-level classes at TriKru Studio.  

She tells herself that it’s because exercise is good for her and that it has nothing to do with dark hair and full lips.

Of course, that’s belied by the way she finds excuses to arrive early or stick around after the class ends. The first time, it’s because Lexa’s got a gash on her palm from moving some broken equipment across the loft-like room; Clarke insists on cleaning and re-bandaging it after class.  That’s how she notices the calluses on Lexa’s knuckles, from her job no doubt, and how graceful and _capable_ her slender fingers appear.

That last thought makes Clarke swallow hard.  

“You’re good at this,” Lexa tells her as she finishes with the new bandage.  “Steady hands.”

“I--yeah.  Thanks.” Clearly, Clarke’s game is not improving whatsoever.  “It’s part of my job.”

The second time, she stays to help Lexa gather up practice pads and wipe down fall mats after class ends, talking as they do so. That’s how she finds out Lexa was mostly raised by Anya’s parents, because her mom died when she was little and her father was often deployed overseas.  It explains why she and Anya seem so much like sisters. Clarke in turn mentions losing her dad to cancer when she was a freshman in college, and how it made her switch from art to pre-med.

It’s gotten a little easier to talk about Jake, in the intervening years, but she still feels a pang.  She is surprised she feels comfortable enough with Lexa to open up already.

“I think you’ll be a great doctor, Clarke,” says Lexa, easily hefting a stack of mats.  “You seem to really care about helping people.”

“Most people,” Clarke amends.  “Unfortunately, being a doctor means I’ll still have to help the ones who are total assholes.”

That draws a surprised laugh from Lexa.  It makes her look younger, and makes Clarke want to hear it again.  So she tells her stories about the sleep-deprived antics of her fellow residents Maya, Harper, and Bellamy, until Lexa’s eyes twinkle from laughing and all the fall mats have long since been cleaned and stacked.

The third time, it’s to watch Lexa spar with more advanced students and with Roan, who teaches some of the judo classes, and that’s how she discovers Lexa is a fucking badass.

It isn’t exactly surprising, given her axe-throwing skills, tattoos, and sartorial preference for ripped black jeans and leather jackets, but still.  Lexa’s only 5’5”--Clarke sees eye-to-eye with her when they stand barefooted in the studio--and she isn’t even that jacked or anything. Nevertheless, she manages to throw Roan and pin him on the ground inside of five minutes, grinning wolfishly.  

It’s kinda hot.

Lexa looks up, barely even breathing hard, and catches her watching.  If anything, her smile only widens.

Five minutes later Lexa is giving sparring tips to a skinny redheaded boy named Aden, who’s in an advanced class despite being probably half Clarke’s age.  She gives him a fond, goofy smile after he masters a complex move.

It’s kinda sweet.

The next time, Clarke arrives at the studio early to find Lexa sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her eyes closed, meditating.  Clarke is buzzing with restlessness even after a twenty-four-hour shift, thanks to too much coffee and a car accident with two grisly trauma surgeries at the end of the shift.  The icing on that shitty cake was someone tagging both her and Finn in some inane memory post on Facebook.

She tries to be quiet as she sets down her gym bag and takes off her shoes, but Lexa still notices and opens her eyes slowly.  “Sorry,” Clarke says. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It’s okay,” says Lexa, but she sighs.  “To be honest I wasn’t having much success before you arrived.”

“Something bothering you?”

Something flickers in Lexa’s eyes.  “It is the anniversary of a...difficult day for me,” she murmurs.

“That can be tough,” says Clarke.  Between her dad, and Finn...she gets it, she really does.  

“Usually meditation helps.  Allows me to stay present.”

“Yeah, that’s what my therapist keeps telling me.” Clarke feels a hot wave of vulnerability and doubt saying ‘my therapist’ but squashes it, because _fuck_ mental health stigma.  “I’m kinda terrible at it.”

“The point isn’t being ‘good’ or ‘bad’.  It’s that you keep returning to it.”

“Thanks, Dalai Lexa,” Clarke says teasingly, but smiles to soften it.  Lexa gives her an amused, almost tender look, and closes her eyes again.

Clarke does the same.  Settles in a comfortable cross-legged position, lets her breath come and go in an easy rhythm, and tries for several minutes to whittle her attention down to just that soft in and out.

But she’s still stuck on the brutal surgeries she’d worked on, then the Facebook picture with her and Finn where they’re _happy_ , they’re smiling and did she really make the right choice, was he right and she was just too sensitive…

Her next breath comes out more like a sigh.

Clarke focuses on her senses instead to help ground her.  She hears Lexa’s breathing, slow and regular, and realizes they’re seated so close she can almost feel the warmth from the other woman’s knee a mere inch from her own.

She opens her eyes to watch Lexa as she meditates, straightbacked, serene, and _beautiful._ Again Clarke wants to sketch her, but this time a more peaceful scene: the gentle arch of Lexa’s brow, her jaw’s defined curve.

The thought comes through so clear in Clarke’s head, it’s like a bell ringing. _I think I could fall for this girl_.

She scrambles to her feet, almost overbalancing, but Lexa opens her eyes and shoots a hand up to Clarke’s wrist to steady her.  

“I should, uh, go stretch,” Clarke stammers. She hopes Lexa can’t feel her pulse thundering in her wrist, and pulls away a little more abruptly than she’d intended.  And after the class ends that night, she packs up her bag quickly and leaves without lingering or even saying goodbye to Lexa.

But two blocks from the studio, she realizes she left her water bottle behind, the good one that never leaks in her bag. So she goes back.

Lexa is alone in the studio. She’s stripped down to just her sports bra and shorts, she’s rapidly punching and kicking a heavy bag, and _oh fuck_ , she has tattoos trailing down her smoothly-muscled, sweat-glistened back, too.

Clarke freezes like a deer in the headlights, halfway through the room.  Lexa is letting out these little grunts with every punch. Her forehead is wrinkled in either concentration or frustration.

Lexa turns as she lands a roundhouse kick and sees her. “Clarke?” she pants.

“Water bottle.  I left it,” she manages to get out.

“The blue one?” At Clarke’s nod, Lexa slips off the gloves she’s wearing.  “I put it behind the counter, let me grab it for you.”

“Thanks.” Clarke drifts towards the other woman, despite herself.  “So, I take it the meditation didn’t help? Or did that punching bag do something to offend you?”

“It didn’t entirely help,” Lexa admits, “but it’s fine.  I’ll survive.” She hands Clarke the water bottle. Their fingers brush, and Lexa’s throat bobs.

 _I’ll survive_ .  Clarke has been so focused on just _surviving_ the past few months--no, longer.  How many times had she thought, during one of Finn’s angry rants, ‘I just need to get through this, just hold on until he calms down…’?

She wants so much more than that.

When she speaks, the bitterness in her own voice surprises her. “Maybe life should be about more than just surviving.”  Clarke looks down at something on the counter for a moment, before she can get the courage to look up again. “Don’t we deserve better than that?”

They’re only a foot apart.  Clarke has inched even closer without thinking.  Her gaze finds Lexa’s lips, then her deep eyes, and something aches behind Clarke’s ribs.

“Maybe we do,” Lexa murmurs.

She leans in slowly enough that her intention is clear; Clarke meets her halfway.  

Lexa kisses with the same careful intensity that infuses her every move and word.  It’s...everything. Warmth tingles through Clarke as she kisses Lexa back, radiating from the place where Lexa’s hand rests on her cheek, drawing her closer.

She feels Lexa tilt her head the other way, brushing their noses together so, so softly.  It’s a lover’s touch, it feels like they’ve known each other for years instead of mere weeks, and that’s what shocks Clarke into pulling back.  

Words spill out of her.

“I’m sorry.  I’m...in a weird place right now and I’m not ready to be with anyone.  Not yet,” she adds.

Lexa just nods, and Clarke can see she’s a little disappointed but trying to stay open, not wanting to push Clarke.  Her heart twinges again for this gentle woman who literally fights people for a living but seems so _kind_.  

“Can we be friends, for now? I’d like to get to know you better.”

“That sounds good,” says Lexa, her voice unusually husky.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They’re just staring at each other now.  Clarke’s two seconds from giving in and pushing Lexa up against the counter to kiss her again.  It takes effort to pull away and head back to the door of the studio. Just before she leaves, she glances back and sees Lexa look up at the cracked plaster ceiling, take a shaky breath, and bite her lower lip.

***

Clarke doesn’t expect Anya to glare at her the next time they overlap at home, two days later.   “What did you do to my cousin?”

“What? Nothing!” But the high pitch on the last word gives Clarke away.

Anya looks victorious.  “That’s what she said too, but she’s even worse at lying than you are.  She’s being all weird and distracted. So what happened, you two hook up?”

“No!” Clarke feels her ears turn red. “We just kissed.  That’s it.”

The architect just stares at her, unconvinced.

“I’m not ready to date yet.  Not so soon after--Finn,” Clarke says, struggling a little to get the words out.  “I realized that and asked if we could just hang out as friends.”

Anya’s look hardens.  “Listen, you’re a decent roommate and probably a good person, and I can tell Lexa is interested in you.  But just don’t play around with her feelings. She’s been through a lot and she deserves someone who will really be there for her.”

Clarke’s stomach twists. She’s not sure if it’s from anger, guilt, intimidation, or some combination of the three.  “Got it.”

“Good.”  Anya turns back towards her own room.  “I bought more paper towels and dish soap, by the way.”

***

Clarke doesn’t sign up for any more classes at TriKru Studio for a while.  She tells herself it’s because she has her step exam coming up that she needs to study for, she really doesn’t have time, and besides, those classes aren’t cheap anyway.  She tells herself that it’s the stress for said exam that’s making it harder to sleep again, and that that’s why she’s back to drowning out her thoughts with TV, staying up late only to struggle through the next day on double Americanos.

Her therapist doesn’t buy it.  “So, what are you trying to avoid thinking about?” Becca asks.  

This is why Clarke pays her--she’s smart, like scary smart, and can read Clarke even when she’s struggling to be honest with herself.  “I dunno, stuff. Things.”

“What kinds of stuff and things?”

Lexa.  Finn. How to move the fuck on.  How she’s so scared of fucking things up.  “How can you tell when you’re ready to date again? Or if it’s too early?”

Typically, the therapist doesn’t give her an easy answer. “It depends. Do you _want_ to be ready to date again?”

“I do, but...I think I’m still pretty messed up by Finn. I should probably be single for a little while, but I don’t wanna miss my chance at something good.”   _Good_ isn’t the right word, though.  How can she explain how different Lexa feels? How it feels like they’ve known each other forever?

“This is about the martial arts instructor? Lexa?”

Had she really mentioned Lexa so often that her damn therapist remembers her name? Clarke can feel her leg jiggling.  “Yeah. We kissed. It was--” _groundshaking, electric, incredible_ , “--really amazing, but.”

And that’s where she’s stuck.  It’s why she shut down and got scared and where Anya’s words made her gut churn.  

Becca is also patient.  More patient than Clarke, at any rate, whose leg is like a bobble-head doll now.

Finally she says it.  “How can I tell if she’s actually a good person? Finn was so nice and thoughtful when we started dating. There weren’t any big red flags saying ‘hey, this guy’s an asshole with anger issues’.”

“Well, when did he stop being so nice?”

Clarke thinks about it.  “It was little by little.  So I couldn’t see it happening.  He’d have some offhand criticism about something I said or did, then that turned into long rants about all the things I was doing wrong.  Then it was him exploding because I should’ve--because _he_ thought I should’ve known better in the first place.” _You just push my buttons, Princess.  I keep telling you this shit and it’s like you don’t pay any attention.  I wouldn’t have to yell if you’d actually--_

“Were there any pink flags, even if they weren’t exactly red?” Becca’s voice snaps her out of it, and Clarke starts breathing again.

“He...isn’t good at compromising or boundaries.  Like he kept pushing to move in together only a few months after we first started dating, even though I thought it was too soon.  That was the first big fight we had. Sometimes it was just easier to go with the flow,” she says with a shrug.

And Clarke hates that.  She used to pride herself on her bravery, on her stubbornness or perseverance (depending on how you looked at it).  Raven didn’t just buy her that Gryffindor mug, her favorite one in the cabinet, because of her last name.

She’d come out as bi in high school when the popular kids were bullying Miller for being gay; since Clarke ran both the prom decorating committee and yearbook, no one wanted to mess with _her_.  She wasn’t afraid to treat the wild-eyed, drug-addicted guys who came to the hospital’s ER from the rough neighborhood nicknamed The Mountain, even though one of them had knocked down Bellamy once.  Clarke had always stood up for herself, for others.

 _I stood up to Finn, too, in the end,_ she reminds herself.

“It’s understandable to be nervous,” Becca tells her.  “But you’re better equipped now. You know what those pink flags look like.  You know to listen to your gut. You can take it slow, get to know Lexa first.”  

“You wouldn’t wanna take it slow if you saw her,” Clarke mutters, thinking of those _legs_ , Christ…

It surprises a laugh from her therapist.  “The point is, if she starts to cross any boundaries, you’ll be better prepared to recognize it now, and to stick to those boundaries.  Listen to your gut,” the woman says gently.

“I’ll try.”

***

Clarke gives it a week.  She joins Octavia at a yoga class, goes to bed at a remarkably human hour three nights in a row, and brings snacks for Maya, Bellamy, and the other residents on the next shift.  She thinks about that kiss way more often than she’d like to admit, remembers how she felt in the pit of her stomach, on her skin...

Tuesday morning she pulls up Lexa’s number on her phone, cradling her Gryffindor mug full of coffee against her chest.  The smell reminds her of her mom, who basically mainlines the stuff after years of her own long hospital shifts. Maybe she’ll actually give her mom a call soon; it’s been a while after all. 

_Hey, it’s Clarke.  Sorry for kinda going radio silent on you_ , she texts.

Lexa starts typing a response almost immediately.  Clarke imagines her waking up, wonders if she drinks coffee too, what her apartment looks like, what she wears to sleep in…

 _Hey, Clarke.  No need to apologize._ _It’s good to hear from you._

Clarke smiles despite herself.   _I meant what I said btw.  I still want to get to know you better_

_I want that too._

_Wanna go on a friend-date, say 7 on Friday? There’s a new Thai place I’ve been wanting to check out, near my place_

_Sounds good. I’m not teaching then._

_...Does friend-date mean I meet you there instead of picking you up?_

Clarke sends a smiling emoji that she hopes isn’t TOO smiley.   _There’s more parking at my place, meet me here and we’ll walk over together_

Lexa apparently doesn’t do emojis, and somehow it isn’t surprising at all.   _See you on Friday, Clarke. I’m looking forward to it._

She can’t help the grin that spreads across her face, making her cheeks ache.  

 _Me too_ , she replies, and then she has to go and finish her coffee and get to work, all the while wishing it were Friday already.

***

“I’m sorry, I should’ve set an alarm, I know I made reservations—” Clarke rushes around trying to grab jeans, sweater, shoes as she speaks in a rush. Lexa is watching her silently, _shit, she must be furious…_

Clarke had gotten back from yet another long shift an hour ago, with just enough time to change and get ready before their “friend-date” tonight.  But she’d made the mistake of sitting briefly on her bed and had fallen asleep, still in her scrubs. She had only woken with a jolt when Lexa buzzed the door downstairs.

“No apology needed, I’ll just call the restaurant and ask them to push the time,” Lexa says, and her voice is...calm? Clarke can’t tell, she’s so tired and harried. “Is 30 minutes long enough?”

“Um, yeah, that's fine.”

“Ok, I’ll let you change.” Lexa heads for the door of her bedroom, but pauses and looks back. “Clarke, would you prefer to stay here and order in instead? Or just hang out another night?”

“No! I’ll rally, I just lost track of time.”

“You sure? I really don’t care whether we go anywhere. Seems like you had a long day.”

Clarke pauses her scramble and looks at her, really looks. Lexa’s face is open, her eyebrows quirked in question and concern rather than anger and contempt, her posture relaxed.   _She means it.  I can say what I want. What DO I want?_

Taking a deep breath, Clarke relaxes her shoulders. “Actually, ordering in would be really good.”

Lexa smiles. “Okay. Still want Thai, or something else?”

“I don’t think that place delivers, but there’s a really good sushi place that does, if you like that.  Menu’s on the fridge, you can take a look while I change.”

“Sounds good.”

They eat sushi and gyoza sitting side-by-side on the couch, though Clarke insists on lighting some candles on the coffee table for ambiance; Lexa certainly seems to appreciate them.  Lexa recounts a story of her first time eating sushi and disastrously mistaking wasabi for avocado, which makes Clarke laughs so hard she almost spills the soy sauce.

Even after a lingering dinner, neither of them is in a rush to call it a night.  So they put on a movie and Clarke settles down under her favorite blanket.

Lexa glances sideways at her, suddenly nervous. “Can I--do you want to cuddle? In a just-friends way?”

Clarke isn’t sure there’s a just-friends way to cuddle, but she also can’t bring herself to care.  In answer, she scooches closer to Lexa on the couch, raises the brunette’s arm and tucks it over her shoulders, and leans into her side.  She can feel Lexa’s chuckle vibrate through her chest.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Clarke inhales Lexa’s smell, some kind of sporty deodorant, laundry detergent, and something piney underneath, maybe cologne.  She’s asleep inside of ten minutes.

The dream is vivid, and Finn’s in it. Somehow he still has a key, and the apartment door flies open.  She can tell with a single glance that he’s livid. He had overheard her talking to Raven about how he’d treated her. _So you’re trying to turn all our friends against me, telling everyone about our personal business? Real fucking mature, Clarke._

He keeps following her around the apartment, and even when she takes refuge in the bathroom, harangues her through the locked door.   _You’re lucky I don’t tell Raven and everyone what a disappointment you are, how weak—_ she tries to ignore him, but he throws something heavy and metallic at the door, rattles the doorknob hard.  

Clarke jerks awake with a gasp.

“Hey, it’s okay.  You’re safe. It was just a bad dream…” Lexa’s voice murmurs, soothing.  Clarke sits up, throwing the blanket off of her. She presses her head into her hands, elbows propped against her knees, and breathes deep, shaky breaths.

“I’m sorry, I…” She’s not sure what she’s apologizing for, but Lexa gently interrupts.

“Shhh, it’s all right. Is there anything I can do for you right now?”

Clarke settles back into Lexa’s side and feels her pounding heartbeat start to slow.  “No, this is good. This helps.” Lexa skims warm fingertips up and down her upper arm.

They sit in silence for a minute, absently watching the quiet TV, then Lexa clears her throat.  

“I lost someone special to me, a few years ago.  Her name was Costia. We met in high school, she was my first girlfriend.” She tells the story smoothly, like she’s had to repeat it before, but not without effort.  “She struggled with depression for a long time. Her family life had been rough, her parents never accepted her being gay. I tried to be supportive, convince her to get help, but one day when I was at work she...killed herself.”

Lexa’s normally light voice roughens on the last couple words.  Clarke puts a tentative hand on her knee but doesn’t say anything.

“For a long time I blamed myself.  I had nightmares where she told me that I should’ve saved her, that I was weak or didn’t love her enough. I thought I’d never get over the pain. But I did.”

“How?”

“Time. Grief counseling. Keeping busy, starting my studio.  Anya threatening to kick my ass if I didn’t forgive myself for something I had no control over,” Lexa adds, and Clarke looks up to see her luminous eyes, full of warmth.

“God, I’m sorry Lexa,” Clarke says. She remembers her dad, and how people’s well-intentioned condolences never seemed big enough to encompass the loss.

But Lexa just says, “Thank you.”  Her heart beats steadily, under Clarke’s ear.

The candles flicker, burning lower. Clarke thinks of blowing them out, but she doesn’t want to move from Lexa’s steadying embrace. When she speaks, her own voice flickers too.

“I—I think my ex emotionally and verbally abused me.”

It’s the first time she’s said it out loud.  Even in therapy, she has danced around the actual words.

Lexa doesn’t move away from her, nor does the rhythm of her fingers tracing patterns on Clarke’s shoulder change.  “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Clarke,” she says, genuine sorrow in her voice.

“Shit, me too.” Clarke gives a mirthless laugh.

“Nobody deserves to be treated like that.”

“Yeah.  I know.”  And it’s actually true. A little more each day since the breakup, Clarke has been learning certain truths, etching them into her brain and her heart through sheer repetition, cheesy Instagram positivity accounts, and her therapist’s patient coaching. _I didn’t do anything wrong.  I’m not crazy. I deserve better._

“No pressure at all, but if you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.  Or if you want to just watch some TV or go for a run…”

“Ugh, thanks but I’ll take a pass on that last one,” Clarke says.  “I hate running.”

“You prefer throwing axes, then?” Lexa teases, picking up on her shift towards levity.

“Maybe if Anya isn’t there.  She’s kinda scary with a weapon in her hand.”  She leans up and looks Lexa in the eye. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

With her free hand, Lexa mimes zipping her mouth closed, her green eyes twinkling.  

Clarke can’t help herself--she sways forward and places a small, quick kiss at the corner of those closed lips.  Chaste as it is, she still feels a blush rise into her cheeks as she tucks herself back into Lexa’s side, pulling her feet up onto the couch.  “For now, I demand more cuddling.”

Lexa chuckles once more, though her cheeks are also tinged with pink.  “That can be arranged.”

Anya returns to the apartment an hour later to find both of them fast asleep, curled into each other.  Lexa’s arm is slung around her roommate’s shoulder, while one of Clarke’s hands rests comfortably over Lexa’s hip.

“About fucking time,” she mutters fondly.

She spreads the fallen blanket over them both, blows out the candles, and steals the last gyoza.

***

It’s a Saturday.  More importantly it’s April 15th, which means it’s Jake Griffin’s birthday, which means Clarke calls her mom to talk awkwardly about work and the weather, watches whatever soccer game is on, and then eats a Boston creme donut, one of his favorite treats. She usually wears his watch that day, too, but when she goes looking for it in her jewelry box it isn’t there.

She looks on top of her dresser, where her earrings tend to end up. It isn’t there either.

She goes through her nightstand and chest of drawers, scours her closet, looks under the bed, peers _behind_ the nightstand and chest of drawers, dumps out the entire jewelry box on the bed. At this point a nauseating suspicion is rising, but Clarke won’t give in to it yet.

Anya is loading the dishwasher when Clarke goes to dig through the junk drawer in the kitchen, though there’s absolutely no reason the watch would be there.

“Looking for something?” her roommate asks.

“Yeah, my dad’s watch. It’s old, has a canvas band…” Clarke describes it half-heartedly, not expecting Anya would’ve seen it. She really only takes it out on her dad’s birthday.

“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”

Clarke presses her hands hard against the cool countertop, anger and panic suddenly spilling through her.  She takes several deep breaths, fighting against the tide. “Finn must’ve taken it.”

“Your ex?”

“Yeah. Some of our stuff was mixed together in the closet.” Clarke shakes her head. “But I think he probably took it on purpose, to hurt me.”

Anya’s eyebrows lift. “Damn. That’s kinda fucked up.”

“Tell me about it.” Clarke pulls out her phone, her blood still pounding so hard her hands shake. It takes her three tries to unlock the device.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna fucking get my dad’s watch back.” She doesn’t text Finn right away, though. First Clarke opens her text thread with Lexa.

_Hey, are you free today? I have a favor to ask..._

***

They meet up in a coffee shop near her apartment a few hours later.

“How have you been, Clarke?” Finn asks.  At least he sees the stiffness in her posture and respects it enough not to try hugging her or something.  She thinks she’d be too tempted to use one of the techniques Lexa’s taught her and deck him.

“I’m good, all things considered.  But I’m not here to be social.” _You don’t have to be nice to someone who hurt you,_ Becca’s voice says in her mind _._  “So you got my dad’s watch?”

“Straight to business, got it,” Finn says with a small smirk.  He looks tired, a furrow in his brow and his long hair disheveled, but he’s hiding it behind the devil-may-care mask of bravado and sarcasm that she once found attractive.  Now she just sees how he uses it to hide his own insecurities.

He pulls the watch out of his jacket pocket and hands it over.

Clarke grasps it, feels the worn canvas against her skin and releases half a sigh.  “Why did you take it?”

He shrugs, not meeting her eyes.  “You dumped me and it hurt, I wanted to hurt you back.  I know how much it means to you. Wasn’t my best moment,” he admits.

“No, it wasn’t.” Clarke holds the watch tighter. She glances to the side, sees Lexa sitting at a table ten feet away, not watching but just...present.  There’s a calm, unobtrusive alertness in her posture, that says _if you need me, I’m here, but it’s all up to you._ She had agreed immediately to be Clarke’s backup for this meeting and hadn’t asked any questions except _What do you need me to do?_  

“Did you take anything else?” she asks sharply.

“No.”

“Good.”

“I fucked it up, didn’t I,” Finn says after a moment, the mask falling.  “I’m sorry. I didn’t really think about the consequences of how I acted.  You didn’t deserve that.”

It’s what she wished he had said, months ago.  It’s what she’s been telling herself and trying to believe.  It’s too little and way too late.

“Say something,” he pleads.

“Thank you for saying that.” It’s all Clarke can think of.  “I’m...gonna go now.”

He reaches for her elbow as she gets up and starts to walk away.  Clarke swings her arm out of reach without thinking, echoing a move she’d practiced at TriKru Studio. “Can we still be friends, at least? I miss having you in my life. You were always so good to me.”

“No, I don’t think so.”  She glances at Finn and then past him, towards the door.  “Goodbye.”

Outside the air feels endless, pours into her lungs like she’s been starved for oxygen.  Lexa meets her out there a few seconds later, and wordlessly keeps pace with Clarke as they head away from the coffeeshop.

“He actually apologized this time.  Then he asked if we could still be friends,” Clarke recounts simply after a few minutes of silence.  “I said no.”

“How are you feeling?”

Clarke exhales.  “Like I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it turns out there was no shoe.  Just--mostly relieved it’s really over. But also a little disappointed, honestly.” She smiles without humor.  “Is it bad that I almost wish he’d been a jerk, or like made a scene? I kinda wanted him to act like a bad guy.”

She’d wanted others, even strangers in a coffee shop, to witness how he’d behaved towards her, as if to truly prove that it was real and not okay.  He’d always kept his anger behind closed doors.

“That’s not bad,” says Lexa.  “It’s a natural reaction after someone’s hurt you like that.”

Clarke realizes she’s still holding her dad’s watch, rubbing her thumb absently against the glass face.  She straps it around her wrist to feel the comforting weight. Then she grabs Lexa’s hand, stops them walking so she can turn to face the other woman.

“Thank you for coming with me.”

“Anytime, Clarke.” Lexa’s got that intense look, focused on Clarke’s face, that always makes Clarke feel _seen_.

“Let me pay you back with ice cream,” Clarke offers.

Lexa smiles.  “No repayment needed, but I’ll get ice cream with you if you want.”

“Good.  Because I have a serious hankering for some double fudge brownie.” Clarke starts walking again, but keeps Lexa’s hand in her own. It’s probably too intimate given that she’d said she needed time, she knows they must look like a couple to anyone who sees them, but right now she doesn’t care. She feels lighter, like a weight actually lifted off her shoulders inside that coffee shop.

“That is an excessive amount of chocolate, you know.”

“Lexa, there’s no such thing as too much chocolate.”

The happiness stays with her all the way to the ice cream shop and even beyond that, warm like Lexa’s hand in hers. This time it feels like maybe it’ll last.

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally managed to wrap this one up. Trigger warning for descriptions of emotional and verbal abuse (there’s no physical abuse or sexual assault, however) in this chapter; please see end notes for resources on emotional abuse and recovery. Unbeta'd.

***

It would’ve been their fifth anniversary, which Clarke only realizes when she jots down the date on a chart at work.  Somehow it feels important, that it’s this day and she hadn’t even noticed for seven whole hours. 

She goes to a salon after work and gets her hair cut to chin-length, then enlists Raven to help her streak it with pink. It tints the bathroom sink a light rose for days and makes her mom frown the next time they videochat, but Clarke ignores that.  She likes it. 

“Do you...still keep in touch with Finn?” her mom asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.  She’s Dr. Abby Griffin, award-winning chief of Arkadia Memorial’s surgery department; she doesn’t do uncertainty. 

“No, I don’t.”  Clarke fights the urge to change the subject.  They’re both trying to do this thing now where they talk to each other about their actual lives and feelings.  One call and text at a time, they’re trying to rebuild the relationship that was a little rocky even before Finn started reeling Clarke slowly away from her friends and family.  

“It...wasn’t a healthy relationship, Mom.  He said and did some really messed up things.  It’s better for me now to not be in contact with him.”

Abby’s jaw tightens, visible even through the pixelated phone camera, but her voice comes out soft.  “Did he hurt you?”

“No, Mom.”  Clarke looks away from the screen, from her mother’s eyes.  Her gaze falls on the Post-it notes she had stuck on her bedroom mirror a while back, on Becca’s advice.   _ It wasn’t your fault.  You deserve better. You are a fucking badass.   _ She sighs.  “Not physically, but emotionally it was—it got ugly.”

“Oh, Clarke.” That’s exactly what she hadn’t wanted to hear, why she’d put off telling her mom for so long.  That sorrow, mixed with a little pity and guilt, in Abby’s voice and expression. 

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” she snaps.  

“I know you’re fine.  And even if you aren’t, I suspect you wouldn’t really tell me that,” her mother says a bit ruefully.  “But I’m just sorry that he treated you that way.”

Clarke feels a lump growing in her throat.  “Thanks, Mom.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Tell Marcus that I don’t want to talk about me and Finn splitting up? I’m sure he wants to be the concerned stepdad and ask me how I’m doing all the time.” Clarke has grown to like Marcus Kane, in the three years that him and her mom have been together, but he’s from California and always wants to  _ talk _ about everything.  He’d probably get along great with her therapist.

Abby hides a smile, like she knows exactly what Clarke means.  “Of course.”

Clarke almost goes to say goodbye, but then she sees her water bottle on the dresser, remembers that kiss with Lexa in the studio.  “Actually, Mom...I met someone new. We’re just friends right now, I’m not ready to date yet, but...she’s special.” She fiddles with the dresser drawers, glancing away from her phone.  This whole “being open” thing isn’t easy.

“I know that look,” Abby says, arching an eyebrow the same way her daughter does. “You like her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” A smile edges its way onto Clarke’s lips.  “...Yeah.”

“Then honey...what are you waiting for? I loved your dad so much.  I still wish I could’ve had more time with him.” Clarke looks up and sees the faintest glitter in her mother’s eyes.  “But I held onto the pain and the grief for so long, I almost missed out on the chance to love someone else again.” 

“It isn’t the same, Mom,” Clarke whispers.  “I don’t know if I can trust her, if I can trust myself…”

“You have always been so smart,” her mom tells her fiercely.  “You’ve always figured out what was best for you. You’ll figure this out, too.” 

***

“This one.  This one is my favorite.”

Clarke drags Lexa over to stand squarely in front of the artwork.  They’re holding hands. They’re holding hands and it’s a real, actual, romantic  _ date. _  Clarke had texted Lexa a week ago and told her about the new exhibit at the contemporary art museum. 

_ Wanna go on a date with me? A more-than-friends one. _

_ I think I’m ready now _

(It had taken Clarke fully ten minutes to compose, erase, re-write, second-guess, and finally send the two texts.)

_ I’d love to. _

(Lexa’s response had come back almost immediately, though Clarke’s heart still skipped a beat.)

“You already said that three others were your favorite,” Lexa points out dryly.  

Clarke hip-checks her.  “I have lots of favorites, okay.”

“What do you like about it?” Lexa asks after a moment.

Clarke tilts her head, considering.  It’s an abstract painting, bold daubs of rust-red and brown standing out almost in relief from the canvas.  It’s chaos with a hint of order behind it. “It looks raw, but you can tell a lot of work actually went into it to make it just right.  It’s full of emotion, that’s the first thing you notice, but it’s been caged--like these circular lines here.”

She glances at Lexa, catching the brunette looking at her instead of the artwork. Smirking, she leans in and presses a quick kiss to Lexa’s cheek.  Just because she wants to. 

When she rocks back onto her heels, Lexa’s blushing and smiling like a goofball.  Clarke tugs her by the hand, on to the next room in the exhibit, feeling a little bit giddy herself.

“C’mon, there’s one more place I want to take you,” Clarke says after they’ve seen the whole show, plus a couple permanent exhibits that she’s particularly fond of.  Lexa follows her to an elevator, up to the top floor, and to an open-air roof terrace. There are a few sculptures, some chairs and benches that look as funky and modern as the sculptures, and a gorgeous view of the city skyline.

“Wow.” Lexa walks up to the railing and leans her elbows on it, surveying the scenery.  Clarke wants to sketch her like this, her long jean-clad legs and the dark button-down shirt she’s rolled up to her elbows. God help her, she wants to sketch Lexa all the time, etch this woman into her brain with her eyes and fingertips.

“I love this place,” Clarke says simply.  “I haven’t been here in a while. The rooster is new,” she adds, noticing one of the sculptures.  

“Why haven’t you? Too busy with your residency?”

“Partly.”  Clarke leans on the railing, so close her arm is brushing against Lexa’s.  “And Finn didn’t have much patience for art museums. Said they were boring.” He’d said  _ she _ was boring in the same breath, she had a stick up her ass, she was lucky he loved her--she hears his  _ voice _ , forces her shoulders to relax, she’s on a fucking date right now...

“Clarke, I’m not exactly sure how to say this.”  Lexa’s tone is serious. She glances over and sees the brunette looking at her, eyes dark.  “But your ex was a fucking douchebag.”

It’s so unexpectedly vulgar, yet still delivered in Lexa’s usual calm tone, that it shocks Clarke into laughing.  She sees Lexa’s eyes crinkle in humor as well. 

There’s still laughter almost bubbling onto her tongue when she turns and presses Lexa against the railing and kisses her.  It’s only their first real date and maybe she should take it slower, be more careful. But she hasn’t wanted something for herself this much in so long.  

Lexa lets Clarke take the lead in deepening the kiss, but she anchors Clarke with those capable hands at her waist. And Clarke suddenly thinks about the green flags that flew at the beach her parents took her to when she was a kid. They meant the water was calm, no hidden riptides to pull swimmers under, just a sunny blue sky over a vast gray-green ocean.

When she finally pulls back, disentangles her fingers from Lexa’s loose curls, Clarke feels like her whole body is made of helium.  From the way Lexa gulps a small breath, she assumes she isn’t the only one feeling that way.

“Think I might have a new favorite,” she murmurs.  

Lexa rolls her eyes.  “That was cheesy.”

“You liked it.”

“Maybe.” Lexa smiles, ducking her head a little bit.  

“Hey, are you--” “Do you wanna--” They both speak at once, words tumbling over each other.  Clarke chuckles, and Lexa makes a little ‘you first’ gesture. 

“Do you wanna go get a coffee?” Clarke isn’t quite ready for this date to be over.

“I’d love to.”

***

They have to cancel their next date, a movie, because Roan calls in sick and Lexa has to cover his evening class. Then Clarke tries to think of cute, fun date ideas but she’s actually a little behind on studying for her step exam and feeling stressed.  Lexa picks up on it—she’s so attentive, even just through texts—and offers a different kind of date instead.

_ I can be your study buddy. Come over and I’ll keep you company, make you something to eat. _

God. Is she even real?

_ Yes, please. That sounds amazing... _

When she shows up at the address Lexa has texted her, with a backpack full of books, notebooks, and flashcards, Clarke feels a mix of nervousness and anticipation.  It dissipates a little when Lexa comes to meet her downstairs, greets her with smiling eyes. She brings Clarke up to her one-bedroom apartment; immediately after they enter, a small black blur darts towards them and twines around Lexa’s legs.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask--you aren’t allergic to cats, are you?”

Yellow eyes blink warily up at Clarke, before the cat butts its head against Lexa’s calf with a soft  _ mrrrrmff _ . 

Clarke smiles.  “No, I’m not allergic.”  She crouches down and holds out a hand.  The cat regards it for a moment, sniffs tentatively and then more thoroughly.

“This is Pauna,” Lexa says.  “Careful, she can be pretty feisty around strangers--”

But the cat is nuzzling Clarke’s hand, rubbing whiskery cheeks against her fingers.

“Huh.” Lexa seems a little dumbfounded.  “She never likes new people.”

She gives Pauna a couple more pets before standing again, smirking at Lexa.  “Maybe she’s just picky.”

As Lexa leads the way further into the apartment, she tosses her own smirk back at Clarke.  “Guess she has good taste in women, then.”

“Now who’s being cheesy?”

The apartment is modest, so Lexa’s tour is brief: bathroom, neat bedroom with an unexpectedly ornate wooden headboard, small but equally neat eat-in kitchen connected to the living room.  A rolled-up yoga mat, hand weights, and exercise ball are lined up in one corner of the latter, next to a well-used scratching post. The only decorations are several fabric wall-hangings and an assortment of candles, but somehow it all works.  In fact, the overall effect is calm, soothing, lived-in.

Lexa indicates the two-seat kitchen table.  “Go ahead and set up, I’m going to fix us some food.”  She puts on a tan apron over her muscle shirt and leggings.  “Mind if I put on some music?”

“No, go ahead.  Actually it’ll probably help me focus.”  Clarke unpacks her stuff, which quickly covers much of the table, and sets to work.

She’s wrong about the focusing, it turns out.  But it isn’t the music--some chill playlist that Lexa hums along to quietly--that distracts her, or even the tantalizing smells of whatever Lexa is chopping and sautéeing that starts to fill the apartment.  It’s the sight of Lexa moving around the small kitchen with just as much grace and skill as she shows while sparring, or throwing axes, or doing anything really. It’s the muscles in her bare, tattooed arms flexing slightly as she lifts a colander, her lips wrapping around a spoon to taste the sauce…

Clarke shivers and forces her attention back to her notes.  Maybe she should’ve sat facing  _ away _ from Lexa.

She manages to recover some self-discipline, slogging through her work until Lexa eventually pronounces dinner ready and shucks off her apron.  They clear away the books and notecards and dig into the food-- _ penne alla Siciliana _ , Lexa calls it; Clarke calls it ridiculously delicious.  In fact, her eyes practically roll back into her head at the first bite of cheesy, tomato-y goodness.

“That good, huh?” Lexa sounds amused.

“Unggh. Yes.”  Clarke forces herself to take normal, polite, human-sized bites instead of wolfing it down.  “This is how you woo all the ladies, isn’t it? You cook amazing food for them?”

Lexa smiles but then looks down at her plate, toys with a piece of eggplant.  “To be honest I haven’t actually wooed many ladies. I’ve dated a little since...since Costia, but it’s never gotten very far.  I just haven’t really connected with anyone.” 

The quiet vulnerability in her voice makes Clarke ache for her.  She reaches out and touches Lexa’s forearm. “Well, I feel extra lucky, then.” 

Lexa meets her gaze then, and it’s almost too much, too intense, searing the breath from Clarke’s lungs.  But the moment breaks when a piteous meow sounds next to Clarke.

Pauna has put two small paws up on her thigh and cranes her neck to look hopefully up at her.  

Lexa groans and claps her hands at the cat, who blithely ignores her.  “Little reprobate. She wants the cheese from your pasta, it’s the only human food she likes…”  She gets up and lifts the cat away from Clarke’s lap, setting her on the floor near the scratching post.  “Don’t make me get the spray bottle,” she threatens, leveling Pauna a look that would probably be very intimidating if it wasn’t being directed at a cat.  

Instead, it just makes Clarke laugh, which in turn provokes a bashful smile from Lexa and further ruins her attempted scowl.

They finish eating, and Lexa refuses to let Clarke do the dishes.   “You study,” she insists, “I’ll handle it.” 

“Okay.” The word comes out unusually husky, because Clarke can’t remember the last time someone took care of her like this. It’s nice.  Though there’s a little wary part of her that wonders what’s the catch, when is Lexa going to hold this against her or expect something in return... 

But once the dishes are done, Lexa just offers to quiz Clarke on her notes. 

“I helped Anya study for her licensing exam, I’m good at flash cards,” she says as they move to the couch.  A little twinkle enters her eye. “For you, though, I propose a little extra incentive, should you choose to accept it.”

“What’s that?”

“For every five cards you get right, you get a kiss on the cheek. For every ten you get right, you get a kiss on the lips.” Lexa raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Oh, you’re on,” agrees Clarke, grinning.

They manage to get through about half the deck of index cards before one of the kisses, perhaps predictably, devolves into a full-on makeout session. 

Lexa makes this little noise in her throat at the feel of Clarke’s tongue dipping hungrily into her mouth, and heat pools low in Clarke’s belly. She straddles Lexa’s lap without breaking the kiss, while Lexa brings hands up to curve over her hips, her lower back. She sinks her fingers into dark, partially braided hair, rocks slightly against a firm abdomen...

Clarke’s phone dings in her pocket, making her jump. “Shit! Sorry, I should check it in case it’s about a patient,” she says, pulling away reluctantly and rather breathlessly. 

It’s a text from Bellamy asking if he can borrow her study guide.  “Bellamy’s just worried about passing his step,” she explains, tossing her phone on the couch next to them.  “Even though we’ve been studying together for weeks and I’ve told him repeatedly that he’s going to do fine.”

“You care about him,” Lexa observes.

“I care about all of my cohort.  It’s like we’ve been through battle together,” Clarke jokes.  But she thinks she hears something in Lexa’s voice, and it makes her pull back and frown.  “Why do you ask?”

“You talk about him a lot.”

A sudden chill washes over Clarke, immediately drowning her arousal.  “No, okay, I’m not doing this.” She extricates herself from Lexa’s lap and starts stuffing flash cards, phone, and books into her bag.  Lexa is frozen on the couch, confused and a little disheveled.

“Clarke? Wait, what are you--”

“I’m not going to feed into whatever jealousy or insecurity you’ve got going on.  Bellamy and I are just friends, but I shouldn’t have to defend that to you.” She shoves suddenly-shaky arms into her jacket sleeves, her feet into her boots.

“I agree.”

Even more than Lexa’s words, her quiet, even tone catches Clarke off guard.  She had instinctively expected defensiveness, sarcasm, shouting, instead of...this.

“I’m not jealous of you and Bellamy, really,” Lexa says, and she sounds sincere.  “I’d actually like to meet him, maybe more of your friends. You talk a lot about Raven and Octavia too, I’d like to get to know them as well. If that’s okay.”

“...oh.”  Clarke’s pulse won’t settle; she still feels the itch to leave, get out,  _ now _ .  But she takes a breath, then another, and forces herself still. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I think I understand where your reaction comes from.”

“Still. I shouldn’t’ve gone off like that.”

Lexa merely shrugs. “Just for the record...I just want to get to know you better, all of you, at whatever speed you’re comfortable with.  Because I like you, Clarke.” Her breath visibly catches a little as she meets Clarke’s gaze. “A lot. 

Clarke swallows.  This girl, this fucking girl with her clear green eyes, is looking up at her all solemn and sincere, like she’s a knight swearing her unwavering fealty.  And Clarke is so scared to trust her because Lexa could betray her, could make her fall only to break her again. But there’s something about her that keeps cracking Clarke’s heart open anyway.

“I like you too.”

A little smile glimmers in Lexa’s eyes at Clarke’s quiet admission.  

“I’m still gonna go now,” Clarke tells her.  “I think I...need to calm down and be on my own tonight, and it’s getting late anyway.”

Lexa nods understandingly.

“But I’d like a hug first, if that’s alright with you.” Clarke holds her breath, but Lexa stands without hesitation and wraps her in a warm embrace.  The tightness in Clarke’s throat unlocks slowly, like a fist clenched too long. She pulls the brunette even closer against her, rests her head on a toned shoulder.

After a few lingering moments, she feels more than hears Lexa’s voice, buzzing under her sternum and against Clarke’s chest.  “I thought you were going to leave.”

“I am.  In a minute.”

The brunette chuckles.  “You said it was getting late.”

“Can’t help it.  You smell good. Like a candle or something,” Clarke mumbles against Lexa’s neck.  She feels a hundred times calmer and more relaxed. Finally she steps back, catching the tail end of a tender, amused look on Lexa’s face as she picks up her bag.  “Good night, Lexa.”

“Good night, Clarke. Sleep well.”

***

_ Griffin. Game night. Me and O are hosting this Friday. You in? _

Clarke is practically inhaling some warmed-up leftovers in the residents’ lounge when she gets Raven’s text. Another quickly follows it.

_ I promise there won’t be any Risk. Not after last time _

Clarke snorts. “Last time” had ended with Raven literally flipping the board over after Octavia had betrayed their alliance. The two roommates hadn’t talked to each other for a week.

_ Good. Then I’m in.  _  She remembers the conversation with Lexa a couple of dates ago, about getting to know her friends, and adds,  _ OK if Lexa joins? _

_ Omg you’re so gayyy. Yeah, sure.   _

_ You can bring your roommate too. If she’s free or whatever  _

_ Who’s being gay now? _

_ Shut up Griffin  _

_ Love you too Rae _

 

“No Pictionary,” Raven decrees as she sets down a bowl of chips on the coffee table. “Clarke’s team will automatically win, it isn’t even a competition.” 

“Ok fine, but no Trivial Pursuit either. And that includes the Star Trek edition, nerd,” Clarke retorts. Raven sticks her tongue out at her.

They wind up settling on Taboo first. Clarke, Lexa, and Octavia play against Raven, Lincoln, and Anya--who was indeed free, and had driven them over. Clarke is pretty good at guessing Lexa’s clues, when she isn’t distracted by the cute way she waves her hands around while searching for a word. Surprisingly Raven and Anya are even better as team members, even though their playing styles are very different. Anya states clues in a monotone, one word at a time, staring expectantly at her teammates until they guess the answer; Raven bounces on her feet, intersperses rapid-fire descriptions with swear words. 

“Shit, this is that fucking guy who was on that show—"

“Fraser,” Anya drawls, and of course, somehow, it’s right.

(Clarke gets them back, though. Next round one of her words is “cheese”, and she grins at Lexa. “Pauna really likes this.”

“You...? No, wait—cheese!”

“Wait, you’re telling me that evil creature likes someone besides Lexa?” Anya exclaims in disbelief.)

After a while they switch to Cards against Humanity.  A few rounds in, Clarke is struggling to decide what Batman’s guilty pleasure is, debating between “poor life choices” and “puppies!”, while everyone else has already selected their cards.

“C’mon, hurry up Princess,” Raven prompts.

Clarke feels the warmth drain suddenly from her body, starting at her scalp and rolling down through her face, shoulders, stomach.  She’s frozen in place, mind gone fuzzy, staring at her hand of cards but unable to read them.

“Earth to Clarke,” says Octavia.

“Sorry.” Shaking her head hard, she tosses down a card at random and stands up.  “Think I need another beer.” 

She books it to the kitchen, where she rolls an unopened bottle of icy beer between her palms, focusing on the sensation.  

She hasn’t had a full-blown panic attack in months, fortunately, but sometimes moments like this just come completely out of nowhere. All it takes is something small--the slam of a neighbor’s door or the smell of a guy’s cologne at the hospital, sometimes she doesn’t even know what it is--to hotwire her body straight into fight or flight mode.  Or worse, to send her into detached numbness or deep sadness that can last for hours. In this case it’s a single word. 

“Princess” had started as a nickname, thanks to a Halloween costume Clarke wore one year.  By the end, Finn mostly wielded it in sarcasm and anger, to belittle her, to dismiss her accomplishments and feelings.

_ Breathe, _ Becca has taught her.   _ Breathe, remind yourself that it’s over, move your body, ground yourself in your senses. _

She can feel the cold, sweating glass in her hands, can smell the limes Octavia had cut up for Coronas.  From the open kitchen she can see the living room: Octavia is leaning against Lincoln, teasing Raven about something; the tiniest of smiles is spreading across Anya’s angular face, as she watches them.  And Lexa, with her usual quiet confidence, sits relaxed on the couch, entirely at ease with Clarke’s friends; earlier, she and Octavia had bonded over a discussion of martial arts techniques.

(By this point in the night Finn would’ve probably been withdrawn and sullen, because Clarke’s attention was partly on the game and her friends; his sour mood would’ve pressured her to leave earlier than she wanted.  Or he wouldn’t have agreed to even come in the first place.)

As if Lexa feels Clarke’s gaze on her, she looks up.  Raises an eyebrow with gently questioning concern:  _ you okay? _

Clarke melts a little.  She nods, and realizes the moment of frozen dread is waning already, her body thawing from its numbness.  

She also realizes that Lexa looks really, really good tonight.  Her hair is loose and lush, she’s wearing a worn cotton shirt tight enough to show the muscles in her shoulders, there’s a little color high in her cheeks from laughing at Raven and Octavia’s antics.  

Clarke could watch her all night.

Popping the cap off the beer, she heads back to the living room and squeezes onto the couch next to Lexa, so close that the outsides of their thighs are pressed together.  Close enough that it gives her an excuse to sling an arm around Lexa’s waist. She rests her chin on Lexa’s shoulder, lets her comforting smell wash away the last bit of remembered fear and tension from her nerves.

“Want a sip?” she asks, offering the bottle.

Lexa nods, holds the neck of the beer between her long, slender fingers, licks her lips and tilts her head back for a swallow--

Clarke blinks hard.  Her own mouth has gone dry as a desert.

“Clarke?” Lexa is holding out the bottle, which she takes absently, staring into green eyes...

“Ok, quit canoodling, you two,” Octavia teases them.  “Lexa, you’re up.”

Several rounds later (in which Raven puts down progressively more scandalous cards and makes unsubtle eyes at Anya), Anya steps away for a phone call.  When she returns, she’s glaring at her phone.

“Hey Clarke, can you get a ride back home? My intern submitted the wrong fucking drawings for this deadline, I have to go in--”

“Sure, don’t worry about it,” Clarke says quickly, at Anya’s murderous look.

“Yeah, I can drive you,” Lexa offers.

“Great.” Anya stalks away, muttering to herself about incompetent people.

“I could actually be ready to head out soon,” Clarke admits.  “I had a busy week...”

“Okay, let me just grab my jacket.” Lexa makes sure to thank Octavia and Raven for hosting, though, and promises to send Octavia the class schedule for TriKru Studio.

The drive starts out quiet--another one of Lexa’s chill playlists spilling softly from the speakers--and Clarke finds herself glancing sideways at the brunette’s beautiful profile, outlined by streetlights.  

“What?”

“Nothing, just--you’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” Clarke’s tongue is only slightly loosened by the couple of beers she’s had.  Mostly it’s just Lexa.

“Look who’s talking.  I was distracted by you all night.”

“Oh really?” Clarke flirts back. She reaches out and takes Lexa’s free hand, intertwines their fingers.  “So, um...what if we went to your place instead?”

Lexa sucks in an audible breath, glances over at Clarke as the car coasts to stop at a red light.  “You mean…”

“...I mean I’d really like to take you to bed.” Clarke’s voice is husky even to her own ears.

The light turns green.  Lexa hits the gas with a suddenly uncoordinated foot, pushing them both back in their seats a little.  “Yeah. God, yeah.”

Clarke smiles, then brings their hands up and kisses Lexa’s fingertips one by one.  Soft, intentional, promising. Lexa makes that noise in her throat again.

Fortunately it doesn’t take too much longer to arrive at Lexa’s apartment building—she lives even closer to Raven and Octavia than Clarke does.  She parks in a hurry, and before she can even unbuckle her seatbelt Clarke leans over the console and yanks her into a bruising kiss. Lexa returns it just as feverishly, almost trembling as she sinks a hand into blonde and pink hair.

Somehow they manage to eventually get out of the car and make their way upstairs to Lexa’s apartment. Lexa presses Clarke up against the door as soon as it closes, nibbles on her earlobe and the side of her neck, making her shiver.  Clarke slips her hands around Lexa’s waist, up under her shirt, hungrily seeking out smooth skin. Her heartbeat is racing, but this time only from anticipation and desire...not from fear.

“Lexa--your bedroom, we should--”

Lexa just makes an impatient  _ hmfff  _ noise from where she’s moving down along Clarke’s neck to her collarbone, mouth hot and wet, and Clarke loses her words for a moment.

“C’mon, “ she finally manages, “your cat is staring at us, it’s creepy--”

That makes Lexa pause and look around. Sure enough, Pauna is watching them curiously from the kitchen, her yellow eyes wide and tail flicking.

Lexa huffs a laugh. Then she bends at the knees and picks Clarke up by the backs of her thighs.  It’s sexy as fuck for about five steps, until Lexa overbalances--wiry-strong as she is, she’s  _ tiny _ after all--and Clarke falls, stumbling and catching herself on the wall.  She just laughs and tugs Lexa along by the belt loop, pulling her into the bedroom, into her arms.

***

Afterwards they lie curled into each other, skin to skin.  Clarke is propped up on one elbow, fingers tracing the tattoos that spill down Lexa’s back and arm. But misgivings start to nibble away at her contentment, cold little whispers of doubt sneaking in around the warmth and joy and digging into her heart. 

“You sure you wanna date me?” 

Lexa turns over to face her, rests a warm hand in the dip of her waist.  She smiles like Clarke had said something funny. “Uh yeah, pretty sure. Seeing as I’ve been on several dates with you now and just went down on you for about half an hour…”

Clarke shivers a little, because Lexa was  _ really _ good at that, but persists.  “I’m serious. You know it isn’t always game nights, sometimes I’m gonna be on call for thirty hours and when I get home I’m just going to crash instead of calling you.”

“I know.” Lexa shrugs.  “That’s fine. Maybe I’ll come over and make you waffles after. Or that pasta that makes you moan.” 

“But what if I get paged in the middle of a date and have to go in for a patient? What if I’m exhausted or grumpy because a surgery didn’t go well, when we’re trying to go out?”

“We’ll just reschedule.  We’ll stay in and watch Netflix.  Besides,” Lexa adds, “who’s to say I won’t be the exhausted one after a long day at the studio?”

Clarke chews her lip and finally voices the real worry that’s gnawing at her.  “I’m not--things are getting better, but Finn fucked me up and I don’t know how long that’s gonna take to completely go away.”

Lexa leans up and over her, green eyes glittering and warm. “Clarke, I don’t care whether or not it’s easy.  I want to date you because I...because you’re you.” She cups Clarke’s cheek in the callused palm of her hand.  “I like you for who you are.”

Clarke lets out a breath and nuzzles into her hand, kisses it.   _ I think I’m falling in love with you _ , she thinks but doesn’t say.  Not yet. She’s sure Lexa was about to say something similar, a moment earlier, but didn’t want to pressure Clarke or move too fast, too soon.  That’s who Lexa is—so considerate and thoughtful and willing to let Clarke just  _ be _ .

It makes her breath catch.  Makes her feel like there’s a whole sun shining inside her body.  She tugs Lexa down, sees her smiling all the way into the kiss.

***

 

EPILOGUE

She passes her step exam.  There’s the mandatory party with her fellow residents, at which Bellamy gets very drunk and starts reciting parts of the Iliad from memory, before making out with an orthopedics fellow named Echo.  Two nights later Clarke goes out for celebratory fancy cocktails with Raven, Octavia, Lincoln, Anya, and Lexa, which eventually devolves into well shots at a gay bar. 

“Ohmygod, Clarke.  Look.  _ Clarke _ !” Octavia has been nudging her with her remarkably pointy elbow for the past few seconds.  Clarke finally tears her attention away from where she’s pressed up against Lexa, who’s moving enticingly along with the music, and looks over her shoulder.

A few feet away on the dance floor, Raven is drunkenly, and very raunchily, grinding up on Anya.  The architect is wearing that take-no-shit look that’s her hallmark, one eyebrow raised at Raven. 

“Oh God.  Should we rescue her?”

“Who, Anya?”

“No, I’m more worried about Raven!”

In horrified fascination they watch Raven arch into Anya, mouth close to her ear, but her drunken ‘whisper’ is loud enough to carry to her friends.  “Y’know, Anya, you act all scary and tough but you--you’re the most beautiful broom in a broom closet of brooms.”

“Oh God.  We should definitely rescue her--” 

But before Clarke can move, Anya actually laughs, throwing her head back.  And then she tugs Raven in and kisses her hard.

“What the...” Lexa had turned around just in time to witness this.  “Oh. Huh.”

There’s an astoundingly loud moan from--Raven? Clarke almost hopes it’s Raven, otherwise it’s just too weird.  Clarke leans into Lexa to say, “let’s stay at your place tonight.”

“Agreed.” Lexa nods fervently.

“I need another drink,” Octavia mutters and disappears in the direction of Lincoln and the bar.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abuse comes in many different forms, and it happens in all kinds of relationships—straight, queer, poly, parent-child, etc. Here are some signs of emotional abuse, which can be particularly insidious: https://www.verywellmind.com/identify-and-cope-with-emotional-abuse-4156673
> 
> If you are in the US, you can call or text The Hotline at 1−800−799−7233 to get help, or visit https://www.thehotline.org/.
> 
> A couple other things that I have found useful:  
> https://www.autostraddle.com/you-need-help-you-can-leave-your-partner-who-scares-you-431451/  
> https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/effects-of-emotional-abuse  
> https://www.amazon.com/Body-Keeps-Score-Healing-Trauma/dp/0143127748
> 
> I am a survivor but not a therapist or domestic violence advocate, so I don’t claim to be an expert on this, and I only offer these resources because they were helpful to me. Please, please seek professional help if you need it.
> 
> Title comes from “Run!” by the very excellent Jamila Woods (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLnR0glSEvE).
> 
>  
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed this. A big thank you to everyone who's left kudos or comments, including as guests.


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